


C'est la Vie

by totorox92



Category: One Piece
Genre: Body Horror, Happy Ending, Psychological Horror, Self-Denial, Self-Insert, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totorox92/pseuds/totorox92
Summary: Some pirates are not very nice. Then again, nice is a matter of perspective.





	C'est la Vie

The world is not kind.

This is not a censure, or chastisement; merely an observation.

The world is not kind.

Kindness is a human construction, a product of perspective. Similarly, the world is not cruel, or chaotic, or warm, or cold, or just. The world does not _contain_ these things, the way it does gold, or silver, or iron, or water. You could grind the world down to dust and not find a single speck of kindness or cruelty.

The world is, after all is said and done, simply lawful. It follows its own rules, which is more than can be said of most men, and their petty constructions. If we desire that there be such a thing as kindness, we must make it ourselves; as a great man once said, ‘THERE IS NO JUSTICE; JUST US’.

I wonder if it might be considered a worrying sign that I empathize with Death?

...Probably not. I think it is an entirely appropriate response to the situation.

At any rate, all this philosophical faffing about doesn’t really mean very much on an individual level. Who cares if free will is real or not if I still _feel_ as if it is real? What does it matter if the universe is kind or cruel if my life is filled with misery rather than joy?

So. Much. Fucking. Misery.

...Anyway, as I said, the philosophizing is kind of moot; we are here, this is happening, how you respond to it is how you respond to it. That might seem rather tautological and equally useless to some, but I find it provides a necessary sort of distance, puts things in perspective, you know? Like, on the one hand, yeah you don’t really have any control over your own life (except for how you think about it), but, on the other hand, that means it isn’t your fault that-

CRACK

...Ow. -That you’re being whipped.

Did you know that whipping is actually _really_ painful? And potentially crippling; you wouldn’t think (or at least I didn’t think) that- CRACK -that a thin piece of leather (but not _that_ thin) could inflict so much- CRACK -so much damage. I mean, that’s just Logic 101, right, if you- CRACK -if you  kill your subordinates then the punishment isn’t really very effective at _motivating_ them, you know? (Unless you have one of the more bullshit Devil Fruit abilities, but then all bets are off and why are you even bothering with all this in the first place?)

…

CRACK

...Ow.

You know, I think one of the more unpleasant parts of the whole affair is the expectation, as it often is. As a lashing is typically administered to the back you can’t really see the blows coming (though if you’re paying close attention (somehow, through the pain) then you might be able to guess based on the movement of the Bosun out of the corner of your eye) so there is always that sort of anxious hanging moment after the whip falls while you wait for the next blow to come. If the Bosun (or whoever is administering the lashing, but generally the Bosun) is the more charitable sort (or merely the more apathetic sort) then the blows will have a sort of workmanlike regularity; coming on with an evenness of force and timing so you can fade it all out pretty quickly. It will still hurt, of course, but after the third blow or so it’ll settle into a steady burn.

However, if your punishment is delivered at the hands of someone who enjoys it, someone who fancies themselves a bit of an artist with the brush of pain, or, as the case might be, simply someone who takes the job of administering punishment very seriously and feels a job half-done is not done at all, then…

Well. You can spend what will seem to be hours trapped in the endless fall of the lash, your own mind turned against you to enhance the… experience.

The shackles clatter slightly against the mast as I slip free, only a slight tearing from the scabs which formed as blood from excessive pulling congealed.

“And what did we learn today?”

I blink once, slowly, still slightly unfocused, before nodding deeply.

“Stealing food is wrong.”

The Bosun nods authoritatively, a stern frown on his face. It doesn’t suit him; he’s clearly trying to do a sorrowful sort of ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you’ kind of deal, to really drive home the point, but the scars and scraggly beard really ruin the whole thing (as does the obvious bulge in his pants).

“That’s right. And that wasn’t your food, was it?”

I shake my head no, still blinking a little slowly, timing of the motion a little off.

“No. That was the cat’s food. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

I won’t. I _really won’t_.

The Bosun clucks his tongue at me, waggling his finger in chastisement.

“I’m not the one you need to say sorry to my lovely, now am I?”

I lick my lips, a new tingle of fear niggling at my gut as I shake my head no.

I turn to the- the cat and-

I can’t breathe.

It hates me. It HATES ME, and I can _feel_ it, like a tick burrowing under my skin as the horrible carcass looks at me with its hollowed out eye sockets, maggots still crawling about to pick at the scraps of flesh hanging off the filthy bone while the flies buzz about its matted fur and crawl over claws long enough to skin a man with and I _know_ that because I’ve seen it happen and the Captain laughed and shoved the poor bastard (Nick, his name was Nick (no it wasn’t (Nick is dead (there never was such a person)))) into a barrel of the really nasty tanning acid and-

“I’m sorry, cat, I shouldn’t have stolen your food. I won’t do it again.”

I may not be able to inhale, but there is a thing called the expiratory reserve, that last little drop of air in your lungs you normally don’t bother moving about, and I can force that out and through my chapped lips, and if that means I pass out then- (I won’t, that would be Dereliction of Duty and that’s another 10 lashes, and I’ve already used up most of the cleaner rags for bandages and I can’t get more blood on my uniform (just shorts but they must be clean) or that’s another 8 lashes for Conduct Unbecoming of a Member of the Necromonger Pirates (Stupid name, _stupid_ name) so I won’t pass out, even though I can’t breathe-)

The click of claws on the wood of the deck next to my bowed head drives all thought of air from my mind. The disgusting slivers of keratin make a soft sound as they pass me by, tiny flakes of encrusted blood, gone black with age and rot, fall like snow upon the planks (I’ll need to make a note to mop the deck before bed, Captain likes a clean ship) as the cat walks away.

“Well, it looks like he forgives you, isn’t that sweet?”

I nod calmly, face set in a neutral blank state with the barest hint of a politely attentive smile.

“Yes Bosun.”

The grizzled pirate runs a tongue over the spot where his left canine should be, digging the wet pink muscles into the little hole in his gums as he looks at me, gaze drifting occasionally to my back and the broad lines of red there, already starting to scab over, checking to make sure the lesson has _sunk in_.

“...Right then, to your work.”

“Yes Bosun.”

I give him a quick bow before returning to the spot on the deck where the temptation had first arisen, scrubbing boots near the forecastle. The cat likes to sit there in the afternoons and enjoy the shade; a little dish of food is left out for him, raw meat on a pewter plate, only a very few flies settling on it, most of the insects distracted by the cat itself instead. I ignore the sucking ache in my stomach and pick up the scrub brush. I did actually manage to grab one of the smaller chunks (the cat doesn’t eat), but on balance I think it was probably a loss.

I heal quickly, the lashings will probably be mostly scarred up by night after next if I can get them bandaged, but I lost blood, and the healing itself takes energy too. It was _wrong_ of me to steal that food (even though the cat doesn’t eat because its stomach has rotted away), and I should have _known_ that, I should have _remembered_ that; stealing is _wrong_ , and when you do things that are _wrong_ , you need to be _punished_ for it, and now the ache in my belly feels like a worm gnawing its way through my intestines. My fingers are shaking very slightly as I pick up the brush, but that is irrelevant.

I do not stop scrubbing. I do not stop working. I do not ask for a break. I do not ask for more food. Food is scarce on the _Theseus_ , and it is all needed for more important things than the wretched, filthy, thieving Cabin Boy, like feeding the Captain’s stitched together horror of a dead cat who can’t actually eat. That I can’t see this must indicate something wrong with my brain, some lingering un-truth from before I existed. (I have always been the Cabin Boy and I will always be the Cabin Boy, and if I sometimes think that I might have been someone else before being the Cabin Boy then that is simply a nightmare and not a True memory.)

...I was talking about the lawfulness of the world. Right. The world is lawful, and it is _always_ lawful, more so than men often are, though men are as subject to its laws as the wind and the tides, even if they follow not the laws of other men. That is how I know that what I did was _wrong_ , for I violated the laws of the _world_ , not mere men. Captain violates the laws of men, for that is what it means to be a pirate, but since Captain is Death, and Death is part of the world, then by logical extension his words (that is to say, his laws) are also part of the world.

I am the Cabin Boy; my purpose is to obey orders (clean the boots, scrub the decks, feed the cat, sluice out the Surgery, polish the Hands-). This is what I am made for, this is the law I follow the same way a rock at the top of a hill follows the law when it rolls to the bottom.

The Bosun is the Bosun; his purpose is to enforce the laws and manage the Crew.

The Captain is the Captain is Death; his purpose is to make the laws, and tell us the laws, and to decide who lives, and who dies, and determine who has broken the law by trying to escape from him into Death, which is his domain and thus his to grant or deny passage into. (Sometimes I dream of the day I might be given that privilege. Until that day, I am the Cabin Boy.)

.           .           .

The Necromonger Pirates are not quite what most people would expect when they think ‘moraganeer’. That is to say, we do not really pillage, merely raid. The Captain is always looking for new specimens to further his understanding of the world and its laws, which is an admirable goal and no mistake, but that doesn’t require we make port very often and so we spend long periods at sea with only the gentle calling of seabirds, the buzzing of flies, and the click of the Hands’ bony feet across the deck to keep us company. Most of my time is spent cleaning (Captain likes a clean ship (cleanliness is next to godliness)): the ship, the ship’s fittings, the Hands, the Hands’ fittings; whatever needs cleaning, really.

Now, it is true that when Captain raids an island in search of new subjects he generally lights the town on fire as we leave, but that is more about tidiness than an enjoyment of cruelty. After all, while he is certainly above the laws of the Marines they are numerous enough and persistent enough to be a nuisance if they knew where we were, and Captain would have less time to study his chosen field. So, whenever we are done in a town, after all the useless subjects have been euthanized via canonade and cutlass, we set it aflame, both to eliminate signs of our involvement and to prevent the spread of disease from all of the unattended corpses. Most unhygienic, a rotting corpse; all the Hands are thoroughly defleshed before beginning service after their sometimes extended tenure as one of the Captain’s specimens (if they were very _good_ specimens, they will even be un-alive during the process. Otherwise, I wear earplugs).

The one exception is the cat, who, being in a state of continuous repair by the Captain (who enjoys fluffiness but is easily distractible due to his genius and sometimes forgets about the cat for months or years at a time), occasionally loses a bit of tissue while walking around the ship. The Captain has been seeking to rectify this with his forays into tanning and taxidermy, however it is a learning process.

I am somewhat exceptional; I came into existence immediately after the Necromonger Pirates raided a small port in South Blue which was called Urahara. Apparently, the last specimen to fill the role of Cabin Boy tried something silly, hanging himself I think, and while the Hands are very dutiful they are also a bit dull, so Captain needed a _fresh_ (fleshy) new boy to fill the position. If I sometimes get the un-true feeling that I might have lived in Urahara, that is merely a sign that I am still _wrong_ , and need to start working harder.

All told, there are only 10 fleshy members of the Crew most of the time (occasionally the more tractable specimens are given work, but they never last very long what with the hunger and the lash and the _cat_ ).

The Captain, of course, is a somewhat borderline case, but I would probably err on the side of assuming he still had meat _somewhere_ under the layers of coats and cloaks and scarves since I have brought him food in his Study or his Surgery and taken away empty plates of food afterwards, so…

Next is the First Mate, who is always smiling because something went a little funny during the preservation process so he can’t move his face; instead he gives instructions with sign language and a sort of rough screaming sound to draw attention. Whatever the Captain did to give the First Mate’s skin that lovely shine certainly worked something wondrous, because while some of his dermis might be as unmoving as stone it is also hard as steel all over, and I have seen him catch cannonballs bare handed and throw them back.

The Navigator is technically next in the ship’s hierarchy, but he spends most of his time in the crow’s nest attempting to divine the future in the entrails of discarded specimens so I do not see him much except to clean his tools.

The Bosun is the Bosun and I have spoken of him already; he is the member of the Crew I interact with most, as I am the softest target- that is to say, the most _wrong_ member of the Crew on a regular basis. He corrects me when I make errors. He is very nice.

The Gunnery Officer, Engineer, and Carpenter spend most of their time in the hold together, content in each other and in their work. I almost lost a hand while cleaning the Carpenter’s bandsaw one time, which would have been very bad because the bones might have fouled the mechanism something awful and it would have taken ages to fix. Now I always ask first to make sure he isn’t working on anything which requires the use of his tools so as to be sure I won’t get in his way when he needs to use them on short notice. This is made somewhat tricky because usually when one of them is using their mismatched collection of seven nice long arms the others are often asleep to save time, so actually asking the _Carpenter_ about tool use is complicated.

The Cook… I don’t really know the Cook very well. She spends most of her time in the kitchen, and I think the little track her wheels run along doesn’t actually leave. She gave me an entire bushel of potatoes to peel once, and let me eat the skins. She is very nice.

The Musician is the only member of the crew I don’t get on with; I accidentally snapped a string on one of their harps once while I was still learning my function and they were very cross. I apologized, and tried to make them a new one using the strips of skin that Bosun cleft from my back while lashing me, but they didn’t seem to like it very much, because I am still too _wrong_.

Last of the fleshy Crew is me. I think that Captain thought I would need replacing after the first month because we went into port to acquire more specimens after just 6 weeks at sea (normally we spend at least 3 months at sea at a time so this was quite soon) and when the rest of the Crew returned they brought along a new Cabin Boy (his name was James (there is no such person as James)). When Captain saw that I was still there, all… fleshy, and alive, and holding out a tray with a nice cup of tea ready for him on his return, he seemed most surprised.

I took it as a sign I was fulfilling my purpose well, after all, if you do something right, people won’t know you’ve done anything at all. Though unfortunately that did mean that the new Cabin Boy was unnecessary. That was when I first found a need for earplugs, and I learned how to clean the Surgery.

The Captain is also the ship’s Doctor, and he is very good at keeping everyone in good repair. I have a remarkable capacity to heal, however, so I have only ever been in the Surgery to clean, and to learn. The Captain is quite keen to teach others of his remarkable findings, even a lowly, pathetic, worthless, disposable, waste-of-space Cabin Boy such as myself. Though I do wish he would let me keep the earplugs in.

.           .           .

Humans are very adaptable creatures. It is, in fact, our strongest advantage in this world. The brain certainly helps with this, of course, but more in that it expands our ability to adapt to the environment (or adapt the environment to us) via tool use. A dog, for instance, cannot live just as comfortably on a Winter Island as a Summer Island without being bred for the task. A human can simply change their clothes and house construction practices.

“Please, please, I’ve seen it, you’re not like the others, please let me go, please-”

I pause while polishing the shackles securing the specimen in the Middle Hold. They are a peculiar kind of metal which is always slightly cold, and requires different cleaners than the more ordinary iron shackles elsewhere on the ship (the metal is seastone; the Captain likes to be very sure his specimens are secure).

The specimen looks at me and it- it- _she-_ she looks-

My breath starts to come quicker as I look at her, look at the girl, looking at me like- I could- I could do-

She has a Devil’s Fruit, otherwise she wouldn’t be in the seastone cuffs, so maybe she- she could- _we_ could-

I clamp her leg back into place hurriedly and make all due haste to find the Bosun, my breath coming in near panicked gasps. She is helping to patch the main sail, which was damaged a little while ago, and looks up at me coolly as I approach. (The Bosun was damaged in the same incident, but the Captain repaired him. (Though the Bosun may change, she is still the Bosun))

“I am very sorry Bosun, I had an Unworthy Thought.”

I turn around and kneel, presenting my back, ready for a lashing, breath already calming. An Unworthy Thought is only worth 3 lashes anyway, so-

“What?”

The Bosun has walked around to face me, pushing up my chin with a six fingered hand. I blink at her.

“I had an Unworthy Thought.”

There is a very interesting expression crossing the Bosun’s face as she nods slowly in acknowledgment.

“I see… and what _was_ this thought?”

“I briefly entertained the notion of releasing Specimen 5309 when it made noises at me as I was cleaning its shackles.”

“5309, which one was that?”

I have to think for a moment; I generally don’t pay much attention to their physical appearance.

“The female, blue hair, approximately 209 cm in height.”

The Bosun’s eyes narrow slightly and her nails dig into the skin of my chin a little more firmly.

“Very pretty that one, aye?”

A very small frown crosses my face and my brow furrows in consideration.

“I’m… not sure? I- I think its features were highly symmetrical… and blue hair is somewhat unusual…”

I am not sure what the Bosun wants, which means I am _failing_ in my purpose. The Bosun is very kind though, for she realises this after a moment and smiles gently, giving me a pat on the head to signal she wants for nothing more.

“Well, you were a very good boy to tell me. Thank you.”

I hardly feel the lashes in the warm glow of pride. I was _right_.

Humans are very adaptable. We can make any condition livable with enough effort.

.           .           .

I had a dream, the first in a good long while. It is about my creation, the birth of the Cabin Boy.

It starts with fire, and smoke, and hoarse, desperate yells in the flickering dark. There is a feeling, close about me as of rough cloth, and a shaking and booming as of the long guns.

Eventually, all is quiet. I am tumbled from the burlap womb to land upon the ground, that is to say, the deck of the ship, which is the only ground I have ever stood upon.

All around are the friendly grins of the Hands, almost glowing in the moonlight like fine porcelain. Before me stands the Bosun, fingering the braided leather handle of the lash, the tool of correction.

“Welcome aboard the _Theseus_. You have now been inducted into the Necromonger Pirates. If you work, you will live. If you don’t work…”

He trails off and glances over the surrounding Hands before smiling gently at me and the three other specimens.

“You’ll still work.”

I think to myself, as I begin to move hauling lines to lower the Mainsail, that it is good to know we will not be killed out of hand. So long as we are alive, there is hope.

I realize, after two weeks without any food besides a handful of table scraps, after having watched Morgan (there is no such person as Morgan) and Theo (there is no such person as Theo) fall before the lash (Dereliction of Duty; they did not get up when Bosun called), only to rise again under the Captain’s hand with their flesh sliding from the bones to join the Hands, mouths stretched wide in the eternal silent scream, that hope is not a True thing. As I look between the empty eyes of the Hands and the last remaining specimen (Sarah, her name was Sarah (there is no such person)) I grow to understand that it is important to know the difference between what is True, and what is a lie.

That night, I find a rat which had been pinned beneath a shifting crate. It is small, but it is making a very loud noise all the same as it writhes and twists, trying to free itself. I grab a hammer and smash its head in, retrieving the rest of the body and cooking it a little over the lamp in the Hand’s Hold where we are allowed to sleep.

The specimen (there is no such person as Sarah) looks at me with revulsion, tinged with the same dire hunger I can feel in my own stomach. I do not look at the specimen while I gnaw on my slightly charred rat, and I do not offer it any of the feast either. The specimen is gone within the week anyway, long purple hair attracting the attention of a playful cat.

I have realized that there is not such a thing as Hope, and that thinking such thoughts distracts from the performance of my duties. I will survive; that is an end in itself.

When I wake from the dream, I say a little prayer of thanks to Captain, that he would preserve such an unworthy Cabin Boy such as myself.

.           .           .

There is a rare moment of quiet; the ship is preparing for something important and, while I would like to be cleaning the upper decks, my presence would only get in the way. Instead I am tightening down the straps holding the cannons in place on the gun deck and ensuring that the powder and cannonballs are secured behind lock and key. It is not very taxing, and there is no one else around aside from the mindless Hands, so I am also using the time to memorize important things.

“-6 lashes, Failing to alert the Crew of Potential Damage, 8 lashes, Immodesty, 4 lashes-”

My train of thought is interrupted by a sudden surge of motion from the deck beneath my feet. The ship must have caught a current or some such; we are moving at a truly tremendous rate.

I risk a peek out one of the cannon ports and see an endless expanse of red stone, passing by at a steep angle as the water rushes below the _Theseus_.

I hum thoughtfully as I go back to ensure the Secure Storage of Vital Ship’s Components, which if I fail at it, is worth 12 lashes. Another jerk and a moment of weightlessness sends me scrabbling for a firm purchase; I will have to wait to finish the job, which is very disappointing.

The ship settles evetually, and a thought occurs. We must be on the Grand Line now; that was probably Reverse Mountain.

The Captain will certainly find good specimens here; I may need to assist him in the Surgery. I should brush up, just in case.

“Cranial Nerves: Olfactory, Optic, Oculomotor, Trochlear, Trigeminal…”

.           .           .

The passing of years is nearly impossible to track on the Grand Line; every island has its own climate, and its own turning of the seasons, so the only really reliable way is by marking the cycles of the moons. Unfortunately I don’t have spare time to waste staring at the sky; that is not my function, it is the Navigator’s. I think it may have been a while since I became Cabin Boy though (that is to say, started existing), because I used to be able to fit between the Gunnery Officer, Engineer, and Carpenter’s legs to clean the floor or the base of their tools while they were using them, but now my head is almost at the level of their shoulders (the highest pair, not the odd one that comes out the back of their head).

This is not a very good thing, I fear. Captain is very large, and so he prefers his specimens to be large as well, as this makes them easier to work with. I was small, originally, but now I am getting large enough that it would not be an irritant to learn how I function (he already knows _what_ my function is, of course, as he gave it to me).

At any rate, this is not a major concern, really, because as a specimen I will still be able to serve _a_ purpose, but once my use as a specimen has expired I will no longer be able to fulfil _any_ purpose, so-

It is not the most pressing problem facing me now, anyway.

I cannot seem to stop shivering. I am not sure why, the last Winter Island we visited was almost a year ago; the seas have been very mild these past weeks. However, I have finally cleared the hold of rats, so I haven’t had anything to eat for… I’m not sure.

Anyway, I cannot stop shivering, and I know my duties will begin in about half an hour and I should be getting ready, but I cannot seem to make my limbs move. This is very disappointing.

I spend some time considering what law this violates. My shift hasn’t actually started, yet, so I’m not in Dereliction of Duty. I’m not enjoying it, so not Moral Lassitude; perhaps Negligence in Ship’s Maintenance? I mean, as the Cabin Boy I am essentially a part of the ship, and food is a part of my necessary upkeep, so I should have tried harder to find something to eat to keep my strength up-

The lid of my bed comes off with a quiet pop and the Captain peers down at me, soft light of a lantern reflecting off the smoked glass covering his eyes. Technically, my bed is a large barrel at the back of the Hand’s Hold which I have lined with lots of rags and bits of cloth retrieved from the specimen refuse. It is very comfortable and warm, and generally soundproof enough that I do not need to wear earplugs to bed.

“Boy.”

It takes me a moment of slow blinking at the Captain to process his words.

“Yes Captain?”

He looks me over slowly, taking my measurements with his glance.

“Get up.”

I try. I _really_ do, I try _very hard_.

“I’m sorry Captain, I don’t think I can move. I’ll report to the Bosun for a lashing when the spell passes.”

He grunts dismissively.

“Enough of that.”

Captain is very large. I think he must have Giant ancestry somewhere in the last three or four generations, though that is really just a guess; many people are much larger than I would expect here, so it is possible he is merely an exceptional member of the standard _Homo sapiens sapiens_. Regardless, his hand is large enough to fully encompass my head, like a grape in the fist of a child, and he pulls me from my bed with a brusque sort of gentleness, letting my feet dangle as he walks.

I suppose I knew this was going to happen eventually. I have only ever been an adequate Cabin Boy, I think. I have gotten much better at knowing when and where I am needed by a member of the Crew, but they still need to ask me to do things rather than me simply _knowing_. It must be a symptom of my wrongness. I hope the Captain will be able to find whatever it is that generates the wrongness in me, so his next Cabin Boy will be able to fulfil the purpose with more alacrity. That would almost be like fulfilling my purpose while not existing at the same time.

The hard wood of the bench hits my bum with a thump as I am set down to blink about in confusion. This is not the Surgery. We are in the Kitchen for some reason.

“Cook, soup.”

A bowl of something steaming is set before me within a minute, a simple wooden spoon sticking from it.

I merely look at the Captain expectantly. I do not think I can feed him like this; a mote of strength has returned to me in the interval, but I am still shivering too much to hold a spoon steady and would certainly make a mess.

“Eat.”

I blink slowly at him, before shifting my attention to the bowl of clam chowder before me. For a moment, I am unsure what he means, exactly. Food is for the Crew, not Cabin Boys. If there was a trashcan nearby I am sure I would try to follow his order, but… he- he does mean for me to eat the soup?

I still pause, mouth opened slightly as I consider. I raise a hand and try to grip the spoon. I’m still too shaky, I think, but-

There is an order to the laws; Conduct Unbecoming is less severe than Disobeying an Order, so…

“Please excuse me.”

My face is only inches from the soup and the spoon is more like a shovel, pushing the chowder into my face hole. The soup is very good, Cook is good at her job.

I finish the bowl. The Captain gestures for another one. I wait patiently, enjoying the aroma rising from the steaming serving of soup. The Captain looks at me, and the untouched bowl, a thread of, curiosity, perhaps, in the tilt of his head.

“Are you not hungry?”

I think about it. I am not sure. I know that when you have not eaten, you feel hunger, and I think I once felt something other than what I currently feel, but I do not recall what that feeling which was different from my current state was like.

“...Yes, Captain?”

His tone is very mild, he is a man of science after all, and he gestures towards the bowl.

“Then, why are you not eating?”

I smile my small cheerful smile. I love questions with easy answers.

“You did not tell me to eat _this_ bowl.”

Captain hums musingly, before nodding in approval.

“Continue to eat until you are no longer hungry. If you need more food, or a specific type of food, ask Cook. Pace yourself; I will not have you wasting Cook’s food by vomiting. When you are done, report to my Study.”

The Captain is so very nice and kind to me. I nod through the tears of joy.

“Yes Captain.”

He departs and I set to my consumption. I finish another three bowls of chowder, and a loaf of dark brown bread, and a hand of bananas, and an entire bowl of salad, and a roast chicken, and another loaf of bread, and three flagons of pineapple juice, and…

I slow for a moment as I crunch the bones of my fourth porkchop. The Captain is waiting for me, in his Study. It is impolite to keep him waiting. However, on the other hand, he ordered me to eat until I was no longer hungry, and to not do so in such a rush as to make myself sick.

Well, the solution is obvious. I will obey the Order, and when the Captain is through with me I will report to the Bosun and let it know that I was Tardy in the Performance of my Duties. I nod cheerfully, swallowing another apple core. Yes, that should balance out nicely.

Eventually I do finish; I can tell because my stomach feels weird, like… floating? What is the opposite of sinking? It is floating, isn’t it? There is also an odd feeling in my limbs, like they are moving too fast for some reason.

I knock gently on the darkly stained wood of Captain’s Study door.

“Enter.”

I have not spent much time in Captain’s Study, except briefly to bring him meals on occasion. The floor is covered with a large carpet, bearing a beautifully stitched rendition of the night sky as visible from North Blue. The walls are full of shelves and cases, most filled with books, but occasionally with preserved pieces of some of the more interesting specimens. In one corner stands one of the Hands- or, no, it is merely a skeleton, apparently of a member of the Long Arm tribe, joints held together with a fine silver wire.

At the end of the room opposite to the door, in front of a large window which faces the wake of the ship, sits a finely made and lightly carved desk made of adam wood, stained a rich wine red color, behind which in turn sits the Captain.

I approach the desk and offer a polite bow, folding my hands neatly behind my back. The Captain looks at me, radiating a thoughtful air for a long minute, a gloved hand gently tapping at the wood of his desk.

“Boy, do you know how long have you been on the ship?”

I am not sure.

“I am not sure, Captain.”

I would guess, but guessing wrong is basically Lying. Bosun was very nice to teach me that.

“You have been on this vessel for 7 years precisely, as of last Wednesday.”

That is nice to know.

“Thank you for instructing me Captain.”

He waves off my gratitude with an absent hand.

“In that time, you have never once attempted to disobey an order, never tried to leave the ship, never asked for anything, not even food, except to ensure you understood an order, and that has grown less frequent of late, though your work has remained adequate.”

He gives me another appraising look, neat and precise as a butcher sizing up a cut of meat.

“You were starving, this morning. If you had not eaten your flesh would have failed. This is not the first time this has happened. Twice previously, I have noted that your flesh was attempting to rebel, and been forced to exert my power to ensure you remained amongst the living.”

I bow appreciatively.

“Thank you for your graciousness Captain; I apologize for distracting you from your work.”

Captain simply waves off the comment again, appearing more thoughtful.

“Why haven’t you ever tried to leave?”

Another easy question.

“If I left the ship, I would not be able to fulfil my purpose.”

“And what is your purpose?”

“I am the Cabin Boy, I serve; the Captain, and the Crew, and the Ship. I clean and do laundry, I fix little things, I bring the Crew meals, I help Cook in the kitchen sometimes, occasionally I will fetch something for the Engineer or the Carpenter. I follow orders.”

“And when you are done with all of that?”

I pause. The Captain asks _odd_ questions sometimes.

“I am never done with that. It is my purpose. If the Crew needs nothing, I clean. If the Crew needs something, I stop cleaning.”

“You do not feed yourself?”

“Obtaining sustenance for the Cabin Boy falls under Maintenance of Ship’s Equipment, however supplies are not always available.”

The Captain’s gaze has a sort of physical weight, a pressure which radiates from behind the cloudy glass of his spectacles.

“You clean the Fruit Cooler, don’t you?”

“Yes Captain, generally once a week, though when we have recently visited an island with a tropical climate there are sometimes insects so I will clean it twice a week.”

The Fruit Cooler is a room the purpose of which I have not yet been instructed. It is right next to the Surgery, and has a very heavy locking mechanism on its front. The shelves are spaced widely apart, and contain an example of just about every sort of fruit known to man, even those fruits like pumpkins which some would not usually call fruit (but which are fruit nonetheless) and of course produce such as blueberries which are not technically a type of fruit (but which some might call a fruit regardless). The room is kept cool, but not quite cold, and the fruit needs to be thrown out and replaced with fresh fairly regularly, though the exact period of time for which it will remain edible varies of course based on the type of fruit.

I am always very careful not to bruise the fruit when I pick it up, wipe down the padded section of shelf beneath it, and set it back down. Most of the cleaning is really just making sure there are no bugs trying to eat the fruit. When the fruit starts to go off, I bring it to Cook, who can cut away the bad sections and use the rest for feeding the Crew.

The Captain nods as I detail this to him.

“You do not eat the spoiled fruit, then?”

“If Cook deems the food unfit for the Crew then she dispose of it in the garbage. I empty the garbage, and if there is something edible there, since it is not for the Crew or any other purpose, I will eat it.”

“So, you have served on my ship for 7 years, subsisting on garbage.”

“And rats, Captain. Whenever we make port the ship generally acquires a new infestation. Since they do not serve a purpose and they dirty the ship, I catch and eat them.”

I still, a horrible thought occurring to me.

“Beggin your pardon- The rats _don’t_ serve a purpose, right, Captain? They- they aren’t used for anything, are they?”

“And if they did serve a purpose?”

I begin to hyperventilate a little, my breathing becoming slightly erratic as I contemplate all those instances of Acting in a fashion Detrimental to Ship’s Functioning I will have to tell Bosun about. I do not remember how many rats I have eaten, how many infractions I have committed; how can I be punished appropriately if I don’t-

“Stop.”

My breathing stops. The Captain is very kind; that was unpleasant.

“Answer the question.”

“If the rats served a purpose, I would have to tell Bosun about my breaking of the rules. I would determine how best I might aid in the rats fulfillment of their purpose. I would not eat the rats anymore.”

“The Crew does not eat very much, and Cook does not produce much waste.”

“No, Captain; Cook is very good at her job.”

“If you did not eat the rats you would probably starve again.”

“That seems possible, Captain.”

“If you starved, I would need to spend my time reviving you.”

My brain stalls out. I _do_ need the rats to survive; they can eat things I can’t, I very nearly farm them when the ship is away from port for long periods of time. If I can’t eat them, I will starve. If I starve, I will distract the Captain from his work, which is- I’m not sure what law that violates, probably many.

I must survive. I cannot survive without eating the rats. I cannot eat the rats. I must survive.

A equals B equals C equals not-A.

There is a loud sort of buzzing in my ears and the faint smell of something burning.

A massive hand grips my shoulder.

“Stop. The rats do not serve a purpose.”

I notice there is a small spot of blood on my upper lip, apparently the source of the odd coppery smell like old wires overheating.

The Captain settles back into his chair, a hand raised to stroke his chin through the thick scarf wrapped around his lower face.

“Boy, I have a use for you.”

“How may I serve you better?”

He gestures to one of the cases on the wall, fronted with frosted glass and filled with large, brightly colored objects.

“Pick one.”

The case, once opened, contains fruit. Very odd fruit, though; they are recognizable as being members of particular genus, but they have all mutated somehow and are now shaped oddly, or almost glow with unusual colors. They are all, I note idly, covered in spirals.

Captain said pick one. Which one should I pick?

My first instinct is the first fruit; it is the nearest to hand and picking it would be part of a sensible order. My second thought is the last of the fruit; there are 13 in the case and that is considered an unlucky number by some, though I personally do not share that opinion. The last in the case would also be a kind of order.

My gaze settles eventually on the 7th fruit in the collection. 7 was a lucky number too, and I had been here 7 years. This lucky 7 is a mango which has shaded from the orange color at the top, through the normal mango-red, then deeper into purples edged with pink. It looks like a sunset.

I place it gently on the desk in front of Captain, who hums quietly in basso profundo and pulls over a large text. He skims through the dry pages quickly before pausing to read and jot down a few lines in his notebook.

“Report to the Surgery. I need to do some preliminary examinations.”

There is a hair fine tremble in my fingers as I open the door, but I ignore it.

.           .           .

Please Captain, please Captain, please Captain, please Captain, please Capta-

“Be still.”

I try, I really do. And I succeed! How nice that really worked, I just needed to hear the order. The whining thread of noise cuts out and the Surgery is quiet, save for the soft wet sounds coming from below my neck and the occasional scritch of pencil as Captain takes notes in his notebook.

I do not think I have ever felt anything like this before. The pain is so totally consuming that it actually makes it hard to remember what is happening. It is much worse than being lashed by Bosun. I cannot think of words to describe it, actually, other than what it is: It is like having my chest cut open and my organs poked, prodded, and weighed. I think I saw Captain lifting my beating heart out of my chest for a moment, but then I saw a bunch of little gnomes crawl out of the cracks in the wood planks overhead and start to dance, so I’m not sure if that really happened.

Eventually, some uncountable length of time later, I was not in pain. Everything below my neck felt very slightly itchy, but it did not _hurt_.

“Clean yourself up, and report back to my Study.”

I had some new scars, a long line of stitches going down my front from my clavicle to just below my belly button, and a new pair of shorts waiting for me to put on.

Captain looks at me over the desk in his Study, the odd mango still sitting on the blotter atop the wooden edifice.

“This, is the Buru Buru Fruit. I am interested in seeing how a human body changes and adapts after consumption of a Devil Fruit. You will be a case study.”

I nod passively. That sounds entirely reasonable.

“If you die, my power will not bring back the Devil Fruit ability when I reanimate your bones. So you will not die. You will get at least one meal a day from Cook, and exercise beyond your work for at least an hour a day. You will wear a life belt whenever you are on deck so you do not drown if you fall into the ocean. You will bring me dinner every night, and after I have eaten we will test your abilities. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good. Eat.”

.           .           .

Devil Fruit are fascinating. Some of it I pick up from Captain directly, explanations he gives for the tests we perform so I know how best to stress my limits. Some of it is merely my own thinking on the matter, my own puzzling out of the odd results of some of the tests. Some of it I actually read, from actual physical books! Captain says some rest is necessary, so after the tests each evening I have a full 15 minutes to just… do whatever.

‘Whatever comes naturally’, he said, but when I started polishing the wood of his study he changed that to ‘and is not part of your purpose’, which confused me endlessly until I realized I could do things _beyond_ my purpose but which would, in turn, aid my purpose. Like reading books. I think I like to read books. It is peculiar, because I did not learn to read on the ship, and I did not exist before the ship, but I still know how.

I ate the Buru Buru Fruit, which makes me a Trembling Man. Bosun thought that was funny. I think it is intriguing.

What does it mean, to tremble? It is the motion of fear, yes, and cold, yes, but also the reverse. The rabbit trembles before the snake because it is afraid, but the motion itself, the actual trembling, is not fear, but _hope_ , preperation to flee the snake. The cold makes us shiver, but the action is not of the cold, but of warmth, for it heats us up when we quake in our boots (or barefeet, as the case may be).

The abilities expressed by a Fruit vary from person to person, even if only slightly, because what the fruit means to a person is dependent _on_ that person. Perhaps someone who had stronger associations with cold would be able to produce a chill in the air with the Buru Buru Fruit. A person who was very fearful might be able to induce that fear in others with their trembling.

Your understanding of the Fruit shapes its power.

For me, Trembling is motion. It is energy. It is the hum of a billion particles vibrating in harmony to form a crystalline lattice in a grain of salt, it is the whistle of a teapot as atoms bounce off each other with enough force to fly apart, it is the fundamental truth of physical nature in which everything exists both simultaneously as a particle and a wave, a trembling blob of energy.

It also helps with cleaning, because it means I can move my hand very fast when scrubbing. The _Theseus_ has never been closer to god.

.           .           .

That is how I learned the purpose of the Fruit Cooler. Many of Captain’s specimens are holders of Devil Fruit abilities. When a Fruit user dies, the ability generally travels to a nearby fruit of the more ordinary variety which will metamorph into a new Devil Fruit.

When Captain’s specimens expire, generally while in the Surgery, their abilities usually infect one of the fruit in the Cooler. That is how Captain obtained 13 different fruit, which, thinking back, is a truly extraordinary number to have ready to hand.

I was somewhat worried he would want the Fruit back, actually, which would have meant I died. But he had already experimented with recycling Fruit from host to host; it was a somewhat lossy process. About 1 in 10 times the Fruit would not reappear on the ship, though there did not seem to be much rhyme or reason to when or if this would happen. Captain had settled on a more long term study in my case, watching how a human nearing adulthood would adapt to the ability granted by the Fruit across a period of several years while they fully matured.

Apparently, Captain believed that I was about 8 when I started existing, which made me about 15 now. It would be 3 more years before the world ended.

.           .           .

There had been a sound of battle, a little while ago. I was working below decks, cleaning and inspecting the storage areas to see if anything needed the Engineer’s attention. The noise had died down though after a bit, the sound of cannon fire petering out alongside the clash of sword on sword and so on. There had been an odd cadence to some of the fighting, actually, a sort of… three part harmony in the swords? Perhaps the Gunnery Officer, Engineer, and Carpenter have picked up a new fighting style.

There had also been some other peculiar sounds, a crackle of thunder, an odd twanging, a soft clopping as of hooves… Captain did not often engage other ships while at sea. Drowning via seawater was one of the few means to block the power of the Vita Vita Fruit. But from the sounds of things he would probably have a good number of interesting specimens to examine in the coming months.

“-old you, there’s nothing down… here.”

I blinked at the light as someone pulled open the door, something much brighter than an oil lantern shining through.

It was not a single person, but several, in fact. A girl with orange hair was standing just behind a man with three swords (was that what that noise had been?) and a large man with a loose shirt who was the source of the light.

I hummed thoughtfully at the hallucinations. They had to be hallucinations, after all. They weren’t part of the crew, that was for sure, which meant they must be boarders. But this was the Specimen Storage Hold, and Captain would never allow boarders in here. They would have had to beat Captain in order to get here, but Captain was Death; he was unbeatable. Ergo, they could not be here, and thus, must be a hallucination. I would have to remember to tell Captain next testing session; we had been examining my electrical conductivity the past week and this might be an unexpected side effect.

Dilemma resolved I went back to scrubbing the stubborn stain on the floor with my rapidly vibrating brush, occasionally dipping my brush back in the bucket and ignoring the hallucinatory noises.

A foot kicked the bucket over when next I tried to dip my brush.

Huh. Hallucinations cannot kick things.

I turned back to the new people, blinking slowly at the girl who had kicked over my wash bucket. If they weren’t hallucinations then they must be...

“Hello. Are you new Crewmates? I’m very sorry I haven’t met you before. I am the Cabin Boy; please let me know if there is anything you need. Can I get you a cup of tea maybe?” -I blinked again at the larger man with blue hair who had been producing the light, now revealed to be a spot light in his palm- “or maybe some oil and a rag? I’m very good at polishing things, if you have any parts which require some maintenance. Though of course the Engineer should take care of anything really serious…”

I trailed off a little, my wandering mind noticing something which had been niggling for a little while.

I couldn’t feel the Crew. I had gotten better at telling where everyone was, what they were doing, and what they needed or were going to need since beginning to train in the wake of acquiring my Devil Fruit. But now; now I couldn’t feel any of them. The Kitchen was not steaming, the Workshop was not buzzing and humming, the Surgery was not filled with soft wet sounds and the clink of steel…

I felt very cold all of a sudden, and looked at the newcomers with the faintest stirrings of uncertainty.

“Who… who are you?”

The man with the light in his hand folded his fingers back, turning the glare into something softer.

“We’re the Straw Hats! Yow!”

I frowned thoughtfully.

“The Straw Hat Pirates?”

The green haired swordsman nodded, his eyes still sweeping the room, lingering on the few specimens being prepped for long term storage or being defleshed before being recycled as Hands. It had been a good long while since we had made port, so there wasn’t very much activity in the room, the beetle boxes nearly quiescent and the meathooks suspending the bled out specimens creaking only very gently with the slow rolling of passing waves. When he turned to stare at me, his eyes had an intensity to them that reminded me somehow of Captain.

“Who are you?”

I blinked again, slow and a little confused still.

“I am the Cabin Boy.”

The Crew must be off the ship right now; Captain would be quite pleased when he returned though as the Straw Hats were known to have several Fruit users in their number.

I bent to retrieve the bucket before standing to go get some more soapy water- The bucket was knocked out of my hands, and the girl’s staff smashed down and shattered it before I could move to pick it up again.

I frowned thoughtfully at the bucket’s remains before turning to the girl, my expression bemused and slightly hurt.

“Why did you do that?”

She didn’t appear very comfortable, her mouth set in a perturbed line as she snarled back at me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

I cocked my head at her quizzically.

“I am fulfilling my purpose. The Crew is off the ship right now, so they cannot ask me to do things for them. So I clean. Right now I am cleaning Specimen Storage; when I am done with that I will begin to polish the lantern glass on the lower deck; when I am done with that I will scrub the floor of the lower deck; when I am done with that I will-”

The swordsman had pressed a length of steel to my throat, cutting me off.

“Your crew is dead.”

“That is impossible. Captain would not allow them to die.”

“Your Captain is dead.”

“That is also impossible; Captain is Death, you cannot kill Death anymore than you can kill gravity, or dirt.”

Big guy stepped forward, face set in a calmly assessing way.

“Doctor Death is _dead_. I saw it happen; my captain killed him.”

I don’t sense any deceit in any of them; they believe what they are saying. A peculiar sensation fills me as I ponder the purported fact. I… I don’t know what to do now. My purpose is to serve the Captain, the Crew, and the Ship... Ahh, there we are. If the Captain and the Crew are dead… somehow… then there is still the ship.

“Please remove your sword, I need to get back to cleaning.”

Green hair’s eyes grow sharper.

“Did you hear what he said? Your captain is dead. Your crew is _dead_. Why clean the ship? Are _you_ going to sail it?”

I shake my head no, ignoring the slight sting as his blade cuts me.

“No, of course not. I’m the Cabin Boy, I serve the Captain and the Crew. If they aren’t here, then I clean the Ship. It is my purpose. I do not sail the Ship, that is the purpose of the First Mate and the Navigator.”

The sword is pulled away with a soft sound of surprise, the wielder unwilling to injure me more. The big guy steps forward and clamps his hand around my shoulder.

“Yo, bro, that’s super… You gotta… Look, my name is Franky. What’s your name?”

He must have hearing trouble.

“I am the Cabin Boy.”

“No, no, not your post, what’s your _name_?”

I cast about, searching for a different answer since the first didn’t satisfy.

“Specimen 6006?”

I point to the small tattoo on my left shoulder. Franky grimaces when he sees it.

“Not… okay, let’s go upstairs first, this place is Super grody.”

I take very mild offence to that, I work quite hard to make sure the ship stays clean, and aside from a few blood stains from drops that missed the bleeding bucket the Specimen Hold is very neatly kept. But I suppose it would be impolite to not follow them.

The deck of the _Theseus_ is going to need a lot of cleaning. The Hands have been largely smashed to pieces, shards of bone scattered about hither and yon. There is a large pile of meat on the starboard side which I think might be the remains of the Gunnery Officer, Engineer, and Carpenter, and a merrily burning (still smiling) figure is probably the First Mate. A spidery figure hangs from the rigging overhead, creaking slightly in the light breeze, mismatched collection of eyes staring vacantly (the Navigator will stargaze no more).

Up on the Bridge lies a heap of cloaks and scarves, seeming oddly deflated with a cracked pair of smoked glass lenses sitting atop in their little metal frame.

There is a gasp behind me as we emerge into the weak sunlight and the girl sees my back.

“Oh my god! What happened to you?”

It takes me a moment to adjust to the outside air, blinking about to survey and catalogue all the tasks which lie before me.

“I used to be more wrong. I had Unworthy Thoughts and Behaved in a Manner Unbecoming of a Necromonger Pirate. The Bosun was very nice; he helped me become less wrong with repeated lashings. I am hardly ever wrong now.”

Swordsman is looking at my bare chest with cold eyes, tracking along the long scar that nearly bisects my torso.

“And that?”

“Captain is studying Life; he needs live specimens. He needed to examine my tissues and organs fairly regularly to track developments.”

Franky traces a hand down his own chest, whisper light, his gaze very far off.

“Your captain was an asshole.”

I consider this statement critically, examining it for veracity.

“He wasn’t _my_ Captain; I am _his_ Cabin Boy. The Captain is just… the Captain. And the Captain is Death. There isn’t anything else.”

I think for a moment longer.

“I suppose he may also have been an asshole.”

Someone snorts at that, which seems to set off a round of giggling. I don’t get it.

“Man, you’re funny! What’s your name?”

The newcomer is a younger male wearing a straw hat. I sigh very faintly.

“I am the Cabin Boy. I am also Specimen 6006. But Franky and the other two did not seem satisfied with that answer, and I am not sure what they want.”

A woman with long black hair meanders in our direction with light steps, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she picks her way through the shattered Hands.

“They were unsatisfied because neither of those are names. Cabin Boy is a job, and Specimen 6006 is a label. A name is something given to you by your parents when you were born.”

I nod in sudden comprehension and smile at her in thanks.

“I see! Thank you, that is much clearer.”

I turn to the straw hatted one, still smiling broadly.

“I do not have a name. I have always been the Cabin Boy, ever since I began existing 10 years ago. 3 years ago I was labeled Specimen 6006 as well but since I did not ever have parents I cannot have ever had a name.”

Straw hat shakes his head nonplussed.

“Everyone has parents Sixy. Everyone knows that. You had to come from somewhere. What were you before you were the cabin boy?”

I consider the question seriously. While it is somewhat rare, Captain does- or rather, did, sometimes ask me to think about questions seriously, ones where I did not know the answer or where an answer might not exist at all. In such a case I had to think hard in order to best reply.

“Before I was the Cabin Boy I was… I don’t think I existed. I don’t remember anything before that except nightmares and un-true things. It was not useful to my purpose so I didn’t think about it much. I’ve forgotten most of that in my attempts to become less wrong.”

Franky frowns at that.

“Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

I think hard, trying to summon up the wisps of dream after so many years of putting it aside.

“I remember… a man... and a woman... and a little girl. We were on an island, somewhere, somewhere green, where the ground didn’t move, which was silly because I’ve never been off the ship. They looked sort of like me, I think? I don’t remember _what_ they looked like, really, but I remember _thinking_ they looked like me, once.”

I shake my head to clear the fog away.

“But that was just a nightmare; it wasn’t True. So I forgot about it.”

Straw hat looked very confused.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad dream at all though.”

I shake my head again in polite disagreement.

“No, it was. It was a vision sent to torment me, so it must have been a nightmare. Besides, I have always been the Cabin Boy, so it couldn’t have happened anyway.”

The swordsman has been joined by a tall blonde in a very tidy black suit. I approve immensely of the orderly apparel and as he smells slightly like food, I decide he is my Favorite.

“That does sound like a good dream though, so why should it torment you?”

I don’t really like these questions, but it would be rude not to answer.

“It was something that wasn’t _real_ ; it was a _lie_.” -I wave my hands and try to find the words to explain- “For a while, before I became Specimen 6006, when I was just the Cabin Boy, I did not get food. Food is for people who matter, for the Crew, not for useless, lazy, stupid, good-for-nothing Cabin Boys, so I ate the garbage, or the rats. Eventually I forgot what is was like to be hungry, because that is what it was like all the time. How can you compare two things against each other if you can only remember one of them? When I did become Specimen 6006, I got to eat food because I mattered. So I wasn’t hungry anymore. But those dreams weren’t something which could possibly exist in real life, like eating food, so they were a comparison to my current situation which could not possibly be made real. It would be like someone trying to tell you there was something better than being not hungry; you’re either hungry or not hungry so there can’t be something _more_ than ‘not hungry’ and anything which tells you otherwise would just be mean.”

I nodded slowly as the thought clicked together.

“Yes, that’s it. You see? I have always been the Cabin Boy, and I will always be the Cabin Boy, until Captain gives me permission to die. Then I will be nothing. So, there are two states of being: I can be the Cabin Boy, or I can be nothing. So the dreams of… something else were just a nightmare. Being the Cabin Boy is better than being nothing; it is the preferable of the two states and there cannot be something better.”

Straw hat looks at me oddly for a moment.

“The captain’s dead.”

I nod thoughtfully at that, musing on the implied question.

“Yeah, that’s kind of funny. The Captain is the Captain is Death; I’m not sure what that means if he died.”

I frown gently at the boy with the scarred face.

“ _You_ killed him right?”

He seems a little guilty at that.

“Well, I just sort of… punched him really hard, actually, and he kind of… poofed?”

Hmm. Who is this guy, that he killed death?

“Okay, I think I have an idea. Give me a second. **Buru Buru Harmony**.”

I tremble, and the world trembles with me.

Everything in creation vibrates, quivers in place, in a vast symphony of motion that links everything together into one. For a moment, I am in perfect sync with all that is and was and will be, and I peer towards that which the universe anticipates.

The effect is gone a second later and I blink at Luffy in surprise, clapping my fist into an open hand.

“Oh! Oh that makes complete sense then. You’re going to be King of the Pirates.”

He smiles cheerfully and nods.

“Yep!”

His crew make various expression of exasperated rage. They are very silly.

“HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?!”

I bat at them reproachfully.

“Well, the King of the Pirates is the least bound by laws. If you aren’t subject to laws, then you are the source of them. Captain was Death, he was _a_ law, but the King is the one who _writes_ the laws; if he didn’t like that particular law then of course he could simply wipe it out of existence. But don’t you see? This is great!”

Miss Robin raises a composed eyebrow of inquiry as I smile cheerfully.

“Oh?”

“Yep! I am the Cabin Boy, my purpose is to serve. The Captain, the Crew, and the Ship, in that order. But that wasn’t the real hierarchy, you see? If the Captain serves the King, and I serve the Captain, then I actually serve the King! I can become _much_ less wrong by serving King Luffy directly, rather than via proxy.”

The man in question picks his nose idly and flicks away a booger.

“Nah.”

My brain skips a track.

“I- oh. Right. I’m sorry for the presumption. I am still wrong; you deserve only the best. Maybe the crew…?”

I trail off, my gaze drifting over the assembled Court. I am not actually looking at them though, but rather feeling for their wants.

“Oh… not- not the crew, then. The ship…?”

But even as I say the words I can feel the _wrongness_. The ship is cared for already. Like the King’s Court, the Castle wants for nothing.

“Oh.”

I still, and process for a moment.

“I see.”

I unbuckle the life belt and unlace my boots, placing them neatly by the edge of the deck before turning to the King one last time and bowing deeply.

“I thank you for the audience, your highness. May all your skies be ever sunny, and your winds ever strong and true.”

With that, I hop back onto the railing and tip backwards. It has been a very long time since I last felt the sea; I wonder what it is like?

A hand catches my ankle before I have gone more than a meter. I hang there, suspended by a single foot for a long moment before being pulled back over the side of the ship to be dangled over the deck by the King’s Shipwright, Franky.

“What the hell?!”

My arms are still crossed over my chest, ready for my eventual release.

“If I cannot serve the King, then I would serve his Court. If I cannot serve his Court, then I would serve his Castle. And if I cannot serve his Castle, then I will serve his Realm.”

“You just jumped off the side of the ship!”

I nod serenely.

“Of course. The King of Pirates is lord of the seas; I will serve his Realm by feeding his subjects. The fish will eat my flesh, and the crabs will crack my bones, and my purpose will be served in service to others.”

“Your purpose sucks.”

That is worth little more than a shrug for the blue haired cyborg.

“It _is_. Good and bad are things that exist only in my head, like pain or hunger. The purpose exists no matter where I go, regardless of what I think, so long as I exist.”

My head hits the deck with a clunk, and Franky sits down across from me with an unhappily confused look as I right myself and face him.

“Why for the purpose?”

“What else is there?”

“But do you _enjoy_ it?”

“Why should that matter?”

“What _do_ you enjoy?”

I pause for a second, tiring slightly of the question game.

“I enjoy fulfilling my purpose.” -a hand forestalls further comment for a moment while I elaborate- “I enjoy finding new ways to fulfill my purpose more completely. I am the Cabin Boy, and my purpose is something I fulfill, but which is never _fulfilled_. No matter how fast I clean there is always something more to be cleaned; no matter how many tasks I perform to serve the Crew, there are always more tasks to be performed. I find enjoyment in finding ways to do _more_ , finding ways to do more things at the same time or to do things more efficiently. There are only so many hours in the day, only so much time I can spend doing things. The more I can do in a day, the closer to fulfillment I come.”

The shipwright looks less unhappy, but still confused.

“So do you like cleaning?”

“I like things _being_ clean.”

“Do you like all the little jobs you do for the crew?”

“I like that the Crew liked for me to do them.”

“And you liked doing them well.”

“Yes.”

Franky looked speculative.

“So, you could say, that your Dream is to be a totally Super cabin boy, yeah?”

I had never thought of it that way, but I believe he is correct. I nod musingly as I puzzle over the idea, and my affirmation is slow and tentative.

“Yes.”

The King appears to have become very slightly interested. He looks me up and down, measuring me, but not in the way that Captain used to, of weights and lengths and how sharp a scalpel would be necessary. Luffy is measuring something beyond my meat, though I cannot fathom what.

Eventually, he smiles and nods.

“Okay.”

.           .           .

And that was how the world ended, and then started back up again.

.           .           .

 

 

Note: Why yes this is insanely derivative of Hoofprints in the Sand! Anyway, this is probably just a one shot; I have more written but I don't think it would add anything, really, particularly since it doesn't go anywhere. I don't want to walk through canon, particularly since canon isn't done yet. I guess Sixy just becomes a part of the Straw Hat Crew and hijinks ensue, etc. The difference, in my view, is that Hoofprints is about Trauma, and I like to think this is more about that Zen state beyond trauma. People's behavior is most interesting to observe at the extremes of circumstance.

 

I personally find a lot of existential irritation with how mundane my life is. It forms feedback loops that bore me to tears: I am unhappy with parts of my life, I shouldn't be unhappy since comparatively my life is so great, the unhappiness is not rendered invalid by comparison to worse circumstances, I am unhappy with parts of my life. It might be a terrible thought, but I really would like something real to cry about, as the saying goes. I worry that my life is so banal and untested that I don't really know who I am, or if there is anyone under the layers of social conformity. And then that irritates me more because it is itself such a vapid and mass-produced thought which doesn't contribute anything or generate novel directions of discourse. And so accrues another layer of dissatisfaction, because even that isn't actually enough to make me feel genuine despair or anguish, just annoyance.

 

So it isn't so much that I love torturing my protagonists, as much as I would like to imagine that I was the sort of person who could pull through adversity.

There is even a word for this, courtesy of the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: Lachesism


End file.
